You Call That History?
by Mara O
Summary: Methos, a Beatles fan? Duncan and Richie are a bit surprised, and that's before they know the whole story.


Disclaimer: Don't own it. Set whenever Methos, Duncan, and Richie would be on the barge together. If this is only in our heads, that's fine.  
  
Duncan returned to the barge to find the stereo blaring, as usual. "Richie, could you turn that down a bit?" It was almost too loud to discern, but when the volume was reduced to a reasonable level, Duncan found himself in the middle of the Beatles' Abbey Road. A dashed-off "Sorry, Mac" came from the couch. Duncan smiled and headed to the kitchen to put away the drinks he'd just bought. The second he opened the fridge and recognized his depleted beer supply, however, he knew something else was up. He sighed.  
  
"Want another, Methos?" Now that he looked for it, he could discern the two different Immortal signatures. Damn the old man.  
  
There was a laugh. "Always. I hope you bought more."  
  
Duncan sighed again and grabbed the last two cold ones before shoving his newly-bought stock into the fridge. "You want anything, Richie?"   
  
"Soda's fine."   
  
Duncan juggled two beers and a Cherry Coke out of the fridge and into the living area. He handed out drinks, then seated himself. "So what's with the Beatles blasting away?" he asked.  
  
That seemed to remind Methos of something. "MacLeod, I am very angry at you!" he said sternly from his place on the floor. "You said you were going to teach this child!"  
  
Duncan glared at him. "I have taught him."  
  
A snort. "He's never listened to the Beatles. That, my friend, is a travesty against nature."  
  
Richie reddened just a little. "I keep telling you, it's not Mac's fault what I do or don't like. It's just never been my style, y'know?"  
  
Methos practically glared at him. "Style has nothing to do with history. And besides, they're everyone's style."  
  
"You consider something less than fifty years old 'history'?" Duncan asked, incredulous, as he seated himself.  
  
"I'm beginning to get a knack for predicting it, MacLeod. People in general are getting better at recognizing good things as they come along, I've been noticing. Of course, they recognize the awful stuff too, but the art gets seperated out eventually." Methos also had a knack for looking both immesurably ancient and stubbornly childish simultaneously. As the last notes of "The End" faded out, he began flipping through the stack of record albums that he'd carted along, using some odd shuffling manuver. "This stuff, it'll be around for awhile. The whole phenomena reminded me a bit of the flurry around Mozart when he was getting started." He selected the second disc of the "White" album and set it playing. Richie and Duncan were watching him from the couch. Methos finally selected a chair and sprawled in it, sipping his beer. "Of course," he continued, "Mozart was mortal. The very best ones always are." He shook his head slightly.  
  
"You dolt," Duncan chided, "the Beatles weren't Immortal."  
  
Methos just raised an eyebrow. "Well, you're mostly right."  
  
"Only mostly?" Duncan asked, jaw dropping a bit. He never could tell if the old man was really telling the truth, but Methos did have a few stories yet left up his baggy sleeve. Methos smiled enigmatically. He twirled a finger to indicate the three of them, then left it upraised. He indicated another three with the hand holding his beer.  
  
Duncan furrowed his brow. "One Immortal?" Methos nodded.  
  
"You've got to be kidding me," said Richie. "Which one?"  
  
Methos grinned. "Well, you don't hear any rumors about Ringo dying in a car crash, do you?"  
  
Richie though about that for a moment, then cross-refenced it with all the 'Beatleology' that Methos had been cramming into his brain all day. "Paul?"  
  
"Smart kid," smirked Methos as he took another drink of beer.  
  
Duncan remained unconvinced. "When were you close enough to Paul McCartney to sense that he was Immortal?"  
  
"New York, somewhere in the 1920s," Methos answered blithley. "He was a struggling two-bit piano player who had 'miraculously' shrugged off a car crash. Didn't have a clue what he was, so I gave him the tour, so to speak"  
  
The other two just stared at him.  
  
"Well, it's a damned good thing I did! He eventually got confident enough in the Game to go and start over in England, and we all know how that one worked out." He raised an eyebrow and his empty beer bottle. "MacLeod?"  
  
Duncan sighed and went to retrieve another beer. As he handed it over, Methos smirked and continued.  
  
"Just when I thought I'd never get you trained. Anyway, McCartney. He looked right instead of left while crossing the street, what can I say? More than a little drunk too, which might have had something to do with it. I was crossing down the way and I'd just sensed his potential when he stepped off the curb. Of course in those days, seat belts were unheard of, so the driver went flying into a trash heap while McCartney went down the road. I picked up the kid and got him into an alley so I could wait for him to wake up."  
  
"An alley?" asked Richie.  
  
"What was I supposed to do, drag him up to my place? Dead bodies are not only conspicuous, they are heavy. However, if most of the blood is cleaned away, one can convince the officers that he is merely passed out. Or at least you used to be able to. Anyway, they get the whole wreck cleared away before he comes to. I tell the cops that I saw the whole thing while trying to get my drunk buddy home, and that the driver must have swerved to avoid someone..."  
  
"Which was true," Duncan pointed out.  
  
"If not entirely accurate, yes. Anyway, he comes to, I show him the ropes, easy." Methos took a long swig."  
  
Richie seemed to accept this, but Duncan's brow was furrowed in thought. "But I've seen McCartney on TV recently, and he is definitely aging. Is he using makeup?"  
  
Methos flat-out grinned. "That was one of mine. Once the "Paul is Dead" rumors started flying, we extracted bits of it for his use."  
  
"Such as?"  
  
"Well, rumor had it that Paul McCartney died and was replaced by a man named William Campbell, correct?"  
  
Richie sighed. "You're the expert."  
  
"Good boy. Anyhow, we hired – on the secret, of course – someone who would stand in and basically age for him after the Beatles broke up. Plastic surgery, bass lessons, etc. He was already left-handed, so that was a plus."  
  
Duncan was really suspicious. "So, everything since 1970 was this Campbell guy?"  
  
"Do you really think that the man who wrote "Helter Skelter" would write symphonies? He nearly blew it there, let me tell you."  
  
"So where's the real Paul?"  
  
"Probably somwhere in Honduras, being rich. I actually saw him on the news once. He was starting a tribute band. Cheeky bastard."  
  
Richie puzzled that over for a minute. "So did the other guys know about it?"  
  
He raised three fingers and ticked them off one by one. "He and Lennon were practically soulmates. John knew almost from day one that something was off about the kid, and McCartney eventually let him in on all of it. Ringo, poor sod, accidently saw him get shot in one of the rougher Hamburg neighborhoods and had to be told. And Harrison...well..." Methos chuckled. "Let's just say that he carried a lot of notebooks around. And of course, he didn't get the tattoo in the usual spot..."  
  
"He was a Watcher?" Richie boggled.  
  
"The most famous one of them all, next to Keith Moon," Methos confirmed.  
  
"Who?" was Richie's response.  
  
Methos looked surprised. "Wait a minute; you know the Who, but you don't..." It dawned on him that he'd misunderstood Richie. "MacLeod, please tell me that you told him about your friend Fitzcairn's stint as a rock star?"  
  
Duncan looked a little nervous, but Methos just sighed and went for his records again.  
  
The End. 


End file.
